


By Nature

by twelvensfield



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelvensfield/pseuds/twelvensfield
Summary: "He and Hank still share a room, a bed, a life, and he tries not to dwell on the implications that all of those things would have separately, let alone together.He stays for as long as it takes for his wounds to heal, and then he stays because his lease is up and he doesn’t want to have to find a new place.And then he stays because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to go back to living on his own, without Hank, without their makeshift family."Barry goes to Hank when he needs help. He never really leaves.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/NoHo Hank
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57





	1. Different from the Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So, I got the Barry bug after watching that Bill Hader and John Mulaney interview thing about Season 2 and I haven't been able to stop obsessing over it since. The title comes from the episode where Hank's on the burning bus, although it doesn't hold that much significance to the substance of the fic.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! It will be up in two parts, with some smut right at the end just because I can :)

Barry really, really — he’s positively serious this time, he swears — needs to kill Fuches. Leaning over Hank’s sink, teeth gritting around an old shirt while Hank frowns and fumbles around the glued-up mess of Barry’s back has him convinced of this.

“Hold still, would you, Barry, jeez. It’s almost out, just got to get the edges, aaand,” There’s a moment where Barry thinks he might be blacking out, again, but he’s aware enough of his surroundings that he notices Hank flinch at Barry’s muffled scream.

“All done. Finished. Now I just need to stitch it back up. But don’t worry, I’ve been working on some crochet and I think my skills as a seamstress are really coming along,” Barry’s eyes scrunch closed again, and he tries to focus on Hank’s ramblings to keep himself tethered to the waking world.

Fuches is a dead man. As soon as Barry regains his strength, as soon as Hank’s men are trained, they’re going after the fucker and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop them. It’s these thoughts that keep Barry’s blood pumping, his knuckles white against the porcelain.

“I’m thinking of going handmade for Christmas this year, even. Wouldn’t that be great, huh? All my boys in matching sweaters. Like Brady Bunch,” Hank braces a hand on the back of Barry’s neck and gets back to work, drawing another grunt through the shirt in Barry’s mouth, “but more cohesive, you know? Less back stabbing. I just need to get rid of Esther, before she rots all my eggs.”

Before Barry can blink, Hank is patting him on the shoulder and removing the shirt from his mouth. Barry feels the dressing across his back stretch as he turns to face the other man. “Done?” He sounds bone-weary, even to his own ears.

“Yes. Good as new. The guys will all be so happy you’re alive, Barry. You up for a celebration chepalgash? Maybe some barsh?” He trails off when he notices Barry’s levelling stare, his sunken eyes. “Another day, then. Tea and painkillers are good for now, sure.”

Hank loops an arm under Barry’s, starts helping him over to the bed before Barry can put up much of a protest. Hank had already swapped his shirt for something soft, cosy, and as Barry sinks further into the comforter, the pain in his back becomes more of a distant throb.

Barry’s eyes must have closed again, because when he blinks, Hank is sitting on the bed next to him with a worried hand at his forehead. Barry swats it away, swallows down the pills, and proceeds to pass the fuck out for the recommended nine hours.

//

He wakes, finally, to Hank’s hands re-dressing the wound on his back. Barry’s on his front, shirt off, with Hank’s hot thigh pressing against his side. He leans into it, almost.

“You’re even more of a fidget monster in your sleep, Barry. It’s counter-productive to the healing process, maybe you should try some meditation, it can really connect the mind and body, I swear.”

Barry just grunts in response, wipes the sleep from his eyes and tries not to grimace at the fuzzy taste in his mouth.

“Come down for breakfast after you shower, Akhmal makes really good eggs — like, I’m talking, really good. To die for, maybe.” Hank’s still bustling around the room, picking up the mess from the night before. Barry thinks that, just maybe, he could get used to someone caring about him this much.

He’d been trying for such a long time for anyone to give this much of a shit about him. First, the marines, but as soon as they’d gotten to know him — the real, gritty, angry, Barry — they’d all run as far from him as they could. Then, Fuches, but even the thought of him at that moment made Barry’s stomach clench in anger.

The closest he’d thought he could get was Mr. Cousineau — he was kind, and seemed to care about Barry in a way that his father never had. But he’d never know and willingly accept all of the things Barry had done, the things Barry couldn’t ever tell him.

He’d tried so hard with Sally, too, pandering to her every need and want. He’d helped her with her auditions, counselled her, given her emotional support. He’d even thought about killing for her. But he knew she’d never do the same for him, not really. They were better off as friends, anyway, with Fuches and acting classes taking up so much of his free time as it stood.

Hank, though, Hank was different from the rest of them. He cared about Barry. He called him to talk about whatever was on his mind, showed up for Barry when he needed him. They weren’t just colleagues, anymore, they’d started to become friends. More, even.

Hell, Barry had crawled his way to Hank’s door when he was half unconscious, barely coherent and so desperately needing someone to pull him into a warm embrace.

A hand cupping Barry’s face brought him back to the present, to Hank’s soft sheets and the even softer brush of his fingers at Barry’s cheek. “Hmm?”

“I was suggesting that you stay here, for a while.” Hank let his hand drop, instead beginning to pick at his cuticles, clawing at a calm facade.

“Oh, uh, you really don’t have to, uh, do that Hank. I’m fine.” Barry’s head ducks, and he stretches out the muscles of his shoulders as much as he’s able.

Hank meets his eyes, trails his gaze over Barry’s form. “Yeah, of course. Just. Let me know if you need new stitches, or — or, or, if you need me to change your dressing or anything.”

It wasn’t like Hank to be this nervous, this unsure of himself in his own home. The thought pulled at Barry’s heartstrings — plus, it really was gonna be a bitch to wrap the stab wound by himself, at least whilst also keeping it from his roommates.

“Actually, uh, you know what, do you mind if I do?”

Hank blinks up at him, again, and Barry stands. A bit too quickly, and he has to steady himself with a hand on the headboard to keep from stumbling. Hank’s hand shoots out to steady him, too, and Barry revels in the warmth that shoots through him.

“Sorry. Vertigo.” Hank moves his hand away, then, too quickly for Barry’s liking.

“Of course you can, Barry. What else are best friends for?” There he was, again. And just like that, the tightness in Barry’s chest loosens, if only a fraction.

//

No one at class notices Barry’s occasional wince whenever anyone claps him on the back or jostles his shoulder.

He might even prefer it that way, even if it makes him all the more desperate to get back to the stash house.

//

Hank’s waiting for him, ever excitable, when he gets through the door later that night. The nervous twitch of lips that Barry shoots in his direction makes Hank’s grin even wider.

“Barry! Hey, man, how was class? You do anything fun?” Hank takes the backpack off Barry’s shoulder, eases some of the strain on his back, and Barry lets him — tries to embrace the warmth of it all.

“Hey, Hank,” They move towards Hank’s room (the only room Barry’s been to in the stash house that feels _lived_ in) and Barry realises that they never went over the logistics of where he’s gonna sleep, “uh, not really. Just some writing — I’m trying to come up with this scene but I’m finding it really hard.”

“No way, that really sucks man. I’m sure you’ll get there.” Hank dumps Barry’s stuff down on the bed and sits next to it, drumming his fingers on the duvet. Nervousness is a trait Barry still didn’t expect Hank to possess, although it was becoming apparent that it was as core to him as the bubbly, flamboyant persona he put forward.

“Thanks. Uh, what have you guys been up to, where is everyone?” There’d been a suspicious lack of Chechens on his way in, although he’d spotted a group of Cristobal’s men hanging out in one of the poker rooms.

“Oh, I’m sure they’re around. A couple of them are doing some errands for me, you know — picking up groceries, doing some courier work,” Hank pauses, and Barry moves to look at him head on, arms crossed around his torso, “kidnapping Fuches. The usual, really.”

“What?” Maybe there’s wax in his ears. Barry _hopes_ that there’s wax in his ears.

“Okay, fine,” Hank stands up again, gesticulating with a flailing arm or two, “I think what Fuches did to you was unforgivable, alright? I mean trying to get you to kill a little girl? The _superglue_?! I can’t just let that go, man.” Hank's pacing, now, and Barry shoots out an arm to stop his movements.

He takes a breath, unclenches his jaw. “What the fuck do you mean, _‘they’ve gone to kidnap Fuches’_? They can barely shoot straight, let alone fucking successfully carry out a kidnapping! You know what, why am I even explaining this to you? I need to stop them all from getting killed or shooting themselves in the fucking feet.”Barry’s hand has tightened on Hank’s arm.

“Barry, buddy, listen. Everything’s gonna be totally fine, just relax, they’ll be back and you can carry out your revenge plan or whatever. Kill the guy, I don’t care. Just take it easy, man.”

It’s the pleading of it all that really gets to Barry, in the end. Hank just wants to help him, for reasons Barry still can’t fathom, so he pushes down the remnants of his anger.

“They still might get themselves killed.” Barry takes his hand off Hank’s arm, tries not to wince when Hank rubs it.

“Think of it as trial run, yes? For Esther.” Hank pats him on the shoulder, and Barry’s grateful for the distraction. “Let me show you around while we wait, I cleared a space for your things in the closet, but don’t put any coats in there or anything because we’re still running out of room. Oh, and I should totally show you the new hot tub Cristobal bought, it’s super roomy you’re gonna love it.”

Barry lets himself be dragged behind, the occasional word of affirmation keeping the smile on Hank’s face shining. Barry tries not to think about the curve of his lips, the glint in his eyes when he shows Barry around the place he’s made his home in.

//

He thinks Fuches’ nose might be broken. “Huh.” He’s honestly impressed that the only hiccup the guys ran into was the shady client Fuches was meeting with — most of the guys came away unscathed, with one or two broken bones and another bullet hole for Akhmal. Hank rewards them with the rest of the day off and their choice of colour for the Christmas sweaters.

With only Barry, Hank and Fuches in the room, Barry circles the chair they’ve tied Fuches to. There’s an axe in his hand, weighing heavy as it drags along the floor beside him. He’d usually prefer to use a gun, but the catharsis of hacking and slashing has always appealed to the darker parts of Barry’s mind.

When they’d brought him in, face even more bruised than the last time Barry had seen him, Hank’d gagged him before the mumblings of bargaining could spill from his mouth.

Barry’s grateful for that — it gives him time enough to articulate his feelings without the other man’s usual spewing of words.

“I hope you know that I’m gonna kill you, man. I don’t want there to be any confusion here.” Barry was grateful that his steady tone didn’t betray the rapid beating of his heart, the sweating of his palms. Hank sent him a slight not from the other side of the room, there if he needed him.

“I wouldn’t want you to think that you could talk your way out of it. Again.” He chances a look at Fuches, sees his wide-eyed struggling, and then lets his eyes fall back to the floor. The drag of the axe grounds him.

“Because you deserve to die, man. You’re a piece of shit. You took what was left of me and— and, you made me into your own personal fucking piggy bank. You made me do horrible shit and _like it_. You wanted me to kill a fucking kid for christ’s sake!” Barry knows it’s spilling out, now, as he slams the head of the axe against the concrete.

“Wasn’t it enough that I didn’t have anyone in my life left to care about me? Did you _have_ to make me into someone that no one — not a single person in this fucking world — could ever love?” He’s crying, he can tell.

Fuches’ expression turns sour, eyebrows furrowing as he strains against the gag in his mouth.

“Don’t think for a second I’m gonna let you talk me out of this. You need to fucking die, Fuches. It’s as simple as that.” Barry approaches him, slowly, pokes the tip of the axe at his chest.

He feels Hank’s eyes on his back as he takes the first swing, sprays arterial blood over his face and neck and shirt. It’s the first of many.

Barry feels Fuches’ screams rattle through his chest as he pushes, pulls, watches the life drain out of those eyes.

When he’s done, when the weight of the axe in his hands is a strain on his injuries, when there’s barely anything left of his former mentor, Barry feels Hank’s hand at the back of his neck. He hangs his head, leans back into the touch, and lets Hank pull him into a hug.

His mind is foggy when Hank pries the axe from his hands, takes his hand and guides him to their room, strips him down into his underwear to let the blood run down the shower drain. But, when Hank tucks him into their bed, rubs a hand across his forehead and changes his dressing, Barry squeezes his hand with all the strength he has left.

Until he falls into the first dreamless sleep he’s had in months.

//

Barry feels weird about it all, for the first few days after it happens.

But it might be a testament to his state of mind when he begins to lose all feeling for what he did, what he hopes to never do again, and starts living his life.

He and Hank still share a room, a bed, a life, and he tries not to dwell on the implications that all of those things would have separately, let alone together. He stays for as long as it takes for his wounds to heal, and then he stays because his lease is up and he doesn’t want to have to find a new place to stay. And then he stays because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to go back to living on his own, without Hank, without their makeshift family.

Barry’s even getting better at acting — Hank swears it’s because of the meditation app that he downloaded onto Barry’s phone, but Barry thinks it might have something to do with the lack of people he’s being forced to kill.

He’d finished training Hank’s men a couple of weeks ago, and even though he was still wary of Hank’s plans to kill Esther, he thought it’d be better if they were prepared for whatever happened. The notion that anything bad could happen to Hank — he’d fallen out of bed, once, animated with the fear of a nightmare, and Barry had had to remind himself that, no, dreams could not be physically forced into submission — made Barry’s stomach clench unpleasantly.

Which may have been an explanation for the gut-wrenching pull Barry felt when he opens the fire escape to their room and hears chaos.

Bullets firing downstairs, Chechens shouting, an explosive device or two, and Barry’s heart is pounding strong in his chest. Shaking hands dump the groceries, rip the mattress off the bed and fumble with loading the guns.

Barry takes a few heavy breaths, tries to keep his mind clear before he makes his way into the hall.

He finds himself stalking the floor with purpose — he doesn’t know, yet, what he’ll find, but he knows it’s something he’s not gonna be too happy about.

Barry doesn’t fire first, because he thought he’d put this all behind him, but he does take out a couple of men that shoot first, because he’s by no means a pacifist. Through the roaring in his ears, he can’t determine who’s men they are, or why they’re firing, and it’s becoming increasingly harder for Barry to figure out what the fuck is happening.

Is someone trying to take the stash house? Did Esther start this all? Is Cristobal in on all this? — And, most importantly in Barry’s fight-or-die brain, _where the fuck is Hank?_

As Barry rounds another corner, towards the direction of the basement, he spots Mayrbek and a few of the others taking cover behind some barrels. He moves, shoots, stalks over to where they’re crouched and takes Mayrbek by the collar.

“What the fuck is going on here, where’s Hank?” If Barry’s voice cracks around the other man’s name, Mayrbek doesn’t notice, doesn’t comment on it.

“E-esther took him downstairs. Hank was trying to take her out, you know, had a whole plan and everything. But she found out, and she got Cristobal on her side and now they have him.”

Barry lets him go, mumbling curse words under his breath.

“You, me, and anyone else you can find. We’re going down there and we’re gonna get him out. If you have a shot, take it. Let these fuckers know that we don’t need them.” They formulate a sort-of plan — only one entrance and exit, and none of Cristobal’s men left alive upstairs to use for bait. All Barry needs to do is get in there, get close enough to Hank to pull him out of the line of fire, and shoot the rest of the fuckersfrom behind as Mayrbek comes in through the front.

Simple enough.


	2. Pleasant Ache

Hank doesn’t notice him when he enters. Barry’s almost grateful for that, for not having to look him in the eye when he says what he’s about to say.

“I see you’ve finally got your shit together, Cristobal.” Barry’s hands raise above his head as he descends the stairs, waits for Esther’s men to pat him down before he lowers them. They don’t find the spare gun down his pants or the knives strapped to his chest — amateurs.

“Barry?” Hank’s voice is a whimper, a whisper of his usual cheer. Barry doesn’t spare him a glance, can’t bear to watch those doe eyes plead with him across the room.

Cristobal regards him with caution. “I thought the two of you were…”

“Well, you were wrong.” Barry levels the other man with a hard stare, tries to convince him that he doesn’t give a fuck about Hank’s well-being, about the state that he’ll leave this room in, if he ever leaves at all.

Barry begins to circle the room, walks with a nonchalance afforded to him by the hours he’s spent working on plays, on his process. He wonders closer to Esther, to the chair they’ve tied Hank to in the centre of the concrete.

“I could be a great asset to your team, now that you’ve taken out everyone that was in your way,” He pauses, thinking about how far he needs to go to sell this, “well. Almost everyone.” Barry locks eyes with Hank, sees the betrayal Hank feels, soaks up the fear and the sadness and the disbelief.

He channels it into his anger towards Esther and Cristobal — _especially_ Cristobal, who he knows Hank treasures as a loyal friend — and turns back to them.

Barry’s in front of Hank, almost fully obscuring their view of him. “I could even kill him for you, if you want. Show you what I can do.”

Cristobal looks as if he’s pondering the idea, and he exchanges a look with Esther. They nod.

Barry plasters on a smile — he doesn’t even have to act, really, because they’ve sealed their fate in that moment and it fills him with a sick sense of joy. “Great.”

His left foot kicks back at Hank’s chair to topple it, hopefully keeping him out of the line of fire. Barry takes out the gun at his belt line, shoots without thinking, lets the muscle memory wash over him. It’s thrilling, watching the widening of eyes before he squeezes the trigger and watches the life bleed out of all of these people before him.

Mayrbek and what’s left of the Chechens storm in at the sound of gunfire, bullets whizzing past Barry’s body as they clear out the room.

It feels like an age before they’re done. Barry registers a shooting pain in his leg, almost sinks to the floor with the feeling of it, but stays standing. Adrenaline keeps him ready for more.

Esther’s dead long before the rest of them — she’d stood still for too long, firing away with no defence in place.

Cristobal, on the other hand, had ducked for cover behind a wall of body guards. One-by-one they’d fallen, until it was just him, just Cristobal and Barry and Hank and their men. He raises his hands, as Barry had done mere minutes ago.

Barry stalks up to him, gun falling from his grip as he cups Cristobal’s face in both of his hands. “You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as him.”

Snap. Cristobal’s body falling to the floor, deadweight thumping loudly in the quiet of the aftermath.

Barry releases the tension across his shoulders and makes his way back, rushing to check over Hank.

He kneels down beside the group of them that had already gone to check Hank over. He sees the blood, feels the wetness of it when he reaches to smooth a hand over Hank’s forehead, his cheek, his neck.

“H-hey, Hank, you’re gonna be okay, buddy.” Barry doesn’t believe his own words, really, just says them .

Hank’s head lols to the side, his eyes blinking on the cusp of unconsciousness. His response is a set of groans and grumbles that Barry can’t bear to listen to.

Someone’s already calling for a doctor, Barry can hear, so he puts pressure on Hank’s wounds and holds tight.

He doesn’t let go until Akhmal is prying his shaking hands off Hank’s torso with words of sleep and rest and wounds.

//

Barry sits by their bed and jostles his knee relentlessly. His other calf throbs where the bullet had ripped through his flesh. It’s up on a stack of books and a cushion, never comfortable enough for him to sleep more than a few hours at a time.

He’s stewing in his own thoughts, going over his plan again and again, wondering if he made a mistake, could have prevented this from happening.

“Barry?” His head snaps up, tears threatening to spill over at the sound of his name from those lips.

“Hank?” Barry knows his voice is weak from lack of use, from shutting himself in with Hank while his body tried to heal the holes Barry could have prevented.

“Hey, man. What happened to your leg?”

Barry cries at that, lets the tears run down his cheeks as he hobbles over to the bed. Hank was still looking out for him, still caring for him through his own pain.

“How are you feeling? Do you need me to get the doctor in here?” Barry sits tentatively by Hank’s side, until Hank pulls back the covers and beckons him in.

“Not yet, I’m okay. But seriously, I don’t remember anything. What happened?”

Barry caresses the side of Hank’s face that’s littered with cuts and bruises, holds him gently while he recounts everything that happened.

“Holy fuck, man, that was totally badass.” Hank’s smiling, for some reason, and Barry can’t quite handle the normality of it all.

“Hank, you almost died. I don’t know what I would have done if—”

“Yeah, but I didn’t, so it’s totally cool. Back to usual business.” He’s still smiling, still forcing this chipper attitude when all Barry wants to do is form a ball and cry himself to sleep.

“No, Hank, not back to usual business. You can’t fucking do this to me again. I can’t — I _won’t_ lose you. I don’t have anyone else.” He drops his gaze, feels shame in the way that he can’t think about living in a place where Hank isn’t nearby.

Hank has the sense to look at least somewhat sheepish. “I didn’t know you care that much about me.”

It’s about as emotionally vulnerable as they’re both gonna get, so Barry takes his chance. “Of course I care about you, Hank. I care about you more than I care about— about anyone else. So.” It’s a pretty lame way to put it, but Barry notices the glint in Hank’s eyes so he guesses he’s said the right thing.

“I love you, Barry.”

It seems so easy for Hank to say, like it’s nothing and everything all at once.

Barry lets his hand stop its ministrations around Hank’s face, tries to bring it back to his side.

Hank doesn’t let him, instead moves Barry’s hand to hug the other man’s waist, hold him closer. Hank’s looking up at him like he’s the first person he’s ever seen, and again Barry feels his guts clench. Not in fear, though, or apprehension. It’s excitement — hope — that’s boiling through his body.

Before he can overthink too much, Barry leans forward. Their lips graze so slightly that Barry thinks this might all be a dream, that he’ll wake up any moment to find his leg twitching and Hank’s still body across the room from him.

But he doesn’t wake up.

Instead, Hank’s body responds so deliciously to his own, their tongues meeting through the soft slide of their lips. Barry groans, holds Hank closer with the tightening of a hand at his waist.

Barry lets Hank explore him with skimming fingertips, hitching breaths and giggles that can’t help but escape from his lips. It seems so juvenile, that they’ve skirted around this _thing_ for so long, now that they’re letting themselves take what they want.

It’s over too soon, really, when Hank groans around the renewed sensation of his wounds, and Barry’s leg throbs uncomfortably from where he’s been resting on it.

They’re laughing now, too, wound around each other under the covers.

“I love you.” It almost surprises Barry, the simplicity of those words.

Creases form at the corner of Hank’s eyes, even through the pain, and it makes Barry’s chest ache pleasantly.

//

“Do I seriously have to wear this?” Mayrbek’s kicking up a fuss, itching under the Christmas sweater Hank had knitted for him.

Barry clips him over the head for it. “Yes, asshole. Now shut up or you won’t get any gvaymakkhsh.”

Mayrbek still grumbles under his breath, but there’s a smile edging the corner of his lips.

Hank comes into the room, then, wearing Barry’s favourite apron and carrying another dish of dessert to add to the pile. Everyone around the table _oohs_ and _aahs_ and Hank’s cheeks redden. He swats Barry’s hand away when he tries to get a finger into the whipped cream.

“Hands off, you know the rules.” Barry pouts and Hank rolls his eyes, offering him a shoulder squeeze instead.

When they’re all plated up and digging in, Barry nudges Hank with his shoulder. “Hey, I, uh, got you something.”

They’d all exchanged gifts already — Barry’s pile mainly contained guns and other war-related memorabilia, along with a scratch-off movie bucket list poster courtesy of Akhmal — but Barry had been saving this one for last.

“But you already—”

“Yeah, yeah, but I couldn’t let you be the only one who didn’t get a Christmas sweater.” Barry blushes when Hank takes the offered bundle of wool.

It had taken him far too long to finish, with at least half a dozen tries before he got even remotely close to something that could be worn. He’d even managed to knit a _H_ right across the front.

Hank didn’t say anything for a while, and slowly everyone began to look in their direction.

Then, when Hank emerges from behind the sweater, his eyes are misty and he’s looking at Barry, not for the first time, like he’s the most important person in the world.

“I love it, Barry, thank you.”

He pulls it on, and the rest of them clap and smile. It’s a muted pink, and the _H_ is bright yellow like a sunflower. Barry doesn’t think he’s ever smiled as much as Hank is smiling now.

//

Later, in the bed they’ve shared for such a long time, it seems, Hank is wearing nothing but the sweater Barry gave him. It sits just below the curve of his ass, and Barry has never been more grateful for wikihow tutorials in his life.

“You look amazing.” Barry’s past the point of feeling ashamed for staring at Hank, in private or in public, and it’s freeing.

Hank moves over to where Barry’s sitting up against the headboard, pretending to go over the script for the show coming up next month. He plucks the script out of Barry’s hand, rests it on the nightstand and hooks a leg over Barry’s lap.

Barry’s hands find themselves trailing patterns over Hank’s bare thighs, up to the hem of his sweater. Just teasing enough to elicit a response.

Hank’s nails come up to scratch at the sides of Barry’s neck, skimming over his pulse. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

Barry cracks a smile, runs his hands under the sweater, squeezes Hank’s ass with just enough nail to have his nerve endings alight with pleasure. The touch is so soft, so barely-there that Hank squirms atop him, keens into Barry’s ministrations like they’re the only thing he needs.

Sitting up further, Barry brings their chests flush together, burning hot beneath layers of fabric. He noses at Hank’s jaw, nips at the softness of his neck. Hank’s fingers grip the hair at the base of Barry’s neck, and his pupils widen with the sharpness of it.

Desire is heavy in the air, lingers between each intake of breath.

“Please, Barry.” It’s always the pleading that does it for Barry. He knows that Hank knows this weakness, knows exactly how to get him to do just about anything. And Barry loves it.

With a renewed vigour, Barry hauls them both off the bed and slams Hank’s back against the wall so they don’t have to part while Barry strips his pants off. Hank’s grinning at the sight of Barry so worked up, and even that does something to Barry.

The first slide of their skin together is almost too much, too soon, and Barry presses his forehead to Hank’s while they adjust. He presses a few lingering kisses to Hank’s lips, his cheek, his jaw. Hank’s legs tighten around Barry’s hips and Barry swears he is this close to breaking.

Hank laughs again at the scrunch of Barry’s eyes, and Barry nips at his lower lip in retaliation. Hank’s fingers tug at Barry’s hair again, tilting his head back so that the lean lines of his neck are exposed for Hank to mark. Barry’s nails tighten around handfuls of Hank’s ass, watching as Hank’s mouth falls open in bliss.

It’s over embarrassingly soon for both of them — not that they care in the slightest — as Barry tugs quick and hard at Hank, pushing him over the edge before stilling with pleasure himself.

The clean-up is a hazy, rushed affair, and then they’re back in their bed, limbs tangled. Hank offers Barry a high-five, but Barry swats him away.

Hank’s still wearing the sweater. “Why are you still wearing the sweater?”

“You think I’m ever taking this off? Never. It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me.” The statement should concern Barry, but he can’t help the grin forming on his face.

They hold each other through the night, and Barry only wakes up once from a bad dream. He calms his brain with the feeling of Hank’s steady heartbeat under his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! This fic was so fun to write, and I know it's not very canon-compliant but I wanted to veer from the main storyline a bit. Hank and Barry fluff just warms my heart y'know :))
> 
> Leave me a comment, they're my only form of sustenance.


End file.
